


prepare for trouble

by remaya



Series: formal courtship [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Courtship, M/M, awkward not-enemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remaya/pseuds/remaya
Summary: Harry and Voldemort are meeting in a neutral location as part of a formal courtship.Snape is their chaperone. No one is particularly happy about this.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort
Series: formal courtship [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720108
Comments: 49
Kudos: 455
Collections: Corona Challenge, Tomarry





	prepare for trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [asterismal (asterisms)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal) in the [CoronaChallenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CoronaChallenge) collection. 



> thank you for the prompt, aster!! kind of intimidated writing for you, but i had fun, and i hope you like it! <3
> 
> **Prompt:**
> 
> Harry and Voldemort are meeting in a neutral location as part of a formal courtship. 
> 
> Snape is their chaperone. No one is particularly happy about this.

“Stop that,” Snape snaps irritably. 

Harry stops tugging at his itchy collar and scowls. “I hate this,” he says, for the millionth time. Snape doesn’t even bother to respond, striding ahead of Harry through Gringotts’ atrium; Harry trots along behind him, thinking that Snape didn’t have to have such stupidly long legs. But of course, he does, because he’s an inconsiderate jerk.

The goblins take Snape and Harry’s wands, scan them for malevolent intent and cursed objects, and then lead them to the reserved negotiation room where Voldemort is supposed to be waiting. Harry hopes uselessly that Voldemort will be late, and the meeting will be canceled, or something-- but that would be too good to be true, considering Harry’s luck.

Voldemort stands as soon as they enter. The goblins unobtrusively leave, closing the door with their departure, and then Harry and Snape and Voldemort are alone together in the room. The atmosphere fills with tension.

Voldemort breaks the standstill by gliding forward, his formal robes rasping against the stone floor. “Harry Potter,” he greets, his voice lower than Harry remembers it, “a pleasure. And Severus.” He holds his hand out, palm up.

Harry swallows his hatred and places his hand in Voldemort’s, trying not to think about how Voldemort’s long fingers engulf his own small ones. They are cool and dry and they can be deadly; Voldemort leans down to place a chaste kiss against the back of Harry’s hand, and the barest hint of fangs brushes against the delicate skin there. 

Harry reminds himself that he’s doing this for Sirius and Remus, and for his friends, and for the good of the wizarding world, and he suppresses a shudder. Voldemort’s eyes glint ruby red up at him anyway, knowingly, with a momentary flash of annoyance.

Discomforted, Harry draws his hand back before it is strictly proper, in a pureblood courtship like this.

Snape clears his throat. “Let us be seated,” he says, leading the conversation as is his duty as a chaperone. “You may converse first, and then exchange gifts before we leave. You have two hours… and I will stay here for their entirety, but I shall not interrupt you unless there is threat of harm.” He casts a glowing _tempus_ charm that fixes itself on the door, counting down from 2:00:00, then sits at the head of the table.

Voldemort pulls out a chair for Harry, both of them standing as far from each other as possible in the process, and then he rounds the table to sit across. His posture is impeccable, and Harry has to look up to meet his eyes, so Harry slouches as much as he can get away with and drops his eyes to stare at Voldemort’s hands, which are resting elegantly on the table without so much as a twitch. Harry’s own hands are clasped tightly around one another in his lap. His cheeks burn as the weight of Voldemort’s gaze settles over him.

“How is your fifth year? You are preparing for your Ordinary Wizarding Levels, yes?” Voldemort says, as if he’s a normal person.

Harry fidgets. “Yeah, I guess,” he says to the table, sullenly, reminded of their age difference once again, and Voldemort does not respond. 

They’re not going to have anything in common. Harry can tell already; they’re going to have super awkward dinners together because Harry won’t want to talk about torture and Voldemort won’t want to talk about Quidditch, and it’s going to be horrible. That’s assuming that Voldemort shows up to dinners at all once the shininess of possessing Harry wears off. 

When Harry finally looks up, tired of the silence, Voldemort tilts his head and remarks, “We are never going to get along if only one of us makes an effort.”

“I don’t want to get along with you,” Harry says, dropping his gaze back to his lap. “There’s no other way, so we’ll have to live with each other, but we don’t have to talk or anything.”

“And balls? Galas?” says Voldemort, dryly. “I will not have a block of dead wood hanging off my arm; there are too many events that we must attend together. Ministry events will also require your input. You--” 

“Then I’ll just do my bit at those, and we can ignore each other for the rest of the time,” Harry interrupts.

“You are being difficult,” Voldemort says, and the exasperation in his voice causes Harry to glance up briefly; Voldemort’s expression is inscrutable. “I am trying to make this as pleasant as possible for both of us. I would have preferred that Dumbledore just agreed to my original terms-- that he hand over all of my horcruxes, and I would have kept you safe and ended the war. But he did not trust me, and here we are, formally bonding for his peace of mind.”

“He’s right. He shouldn’t trust you. _I_ don’t trust you,” Harry says defensively, raising his head to glare at Voldemort.

Voldemort sighs. “And here you are, still defending him.”

“You blame him for everything,” Harry accuses. “But really, it’s _your_ fault. This whole thing wouldn’t have happened if you just didn’t become a Dark Lord, and if you weren’t the kind of person to break Cedric’s legs so badly that he’ll never walk again!”

“You’re _still_ on about that?” Voldemort continues before Harry can. “If I were you, I’d be grateful. Any other Dark Lord would have treated you more callously than I did. They would not care about preserving your soul; they would have extracted the horcrux and been done with it, just resurrected or not.”

“Whatever,” Harry mutters, abruptly depressed. “If I hadn’t given you my blood then you would’ve been too weak to do that. It’s over, anyway. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You're the one who brought it up,” Voldemort says.

They fall into awkward silence again.

“It’s your turn to think of a topic of conversation,” Voldemort prompts Harry eventually, the ticking of the _tempus_ charm driving all three of them into insanity. Well, further insanity.

Harry wrings his hands in his lap. “... I don’t know.”

“Good heavens,” interjects Snape, unable to stay impartial for any longer. “You two should have progressed to holding hands _two meetings_ ago. Talk about the weather, Hogwarts, complain-- just talk about something _other_ than last year or how much you hate each other.”

Voldemort flexes his fingers. “We can hold hands now,” he says, rising gracefully, and he walks around the table, sits down next to Harry, and reaches for Harry’s hand.

Harry jerks back automatically. He opens his mouth to protest, but then he sees the challenging glint in Voldemort’s eyes, and his pride won’t let him lose in this game of chicken. “Fine,” he says, and offers his hand. Voldemort grasps it lightly.

It feels kind of weird, probably because Harry hasn’t exactly held hands with anybody before-- at least, with the expectation of marrying the person he’s holding hands with. Also, these hands have killed and tortured a lot of people; maybe not these hands _exactly,_ but the point stands. They’re large and deadly. They shouldn’t be gentle.

“It is still your turn to think of a topic of conversation,” Voldemort says, passive-aggressively.

“Fine.” Harry wracks his brain to find the most painful topic possible to torment Voldemort with. “How about… the Quibbler.”

“What about the Quibbler,” Voldemort says, his voice flat. Evidently, Voldemort is not a fan. 

“Luna says that it’s very fascinating and informative, especially the latest article on… the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.” Harry is briefly horrified at himself for remembering the name, and his hand spasms in Voldemort’s. “And, you know.”

Voldemort scoffs. “Lovegood is delusional. And I actually do not know, so would you say it aloud for me to understand, Harry?”

“No, if you don’t know, then it’s fine,” Harry says hastily. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

“No, truly,” Voldemort insists. Harry’s sure that he’s doing this on purpose; the corners of his lips are quirked upwards the tiniest bit. Oh, he’s definitely read the article. And Snape is looking at Harry with interest now too, so Harry has to say it.

“Well,” Harry says, a flush creeping into his cheeks, “the other latest article. Are you sure you don’t know it? It’s all over-- it’s the one that thinks you have two penises, like a snake.”

“Perhaps I do.”

Harry gapes up at Voldemort, shocked. Voldemort smirks down at him with the faintest hint of a leer. Harry squawks and moves to pull his hand out of Voldemort’s, but Voldemort merely tightens his grip.

“This is _not_ what I meant,” Snape says, breaking his impartiality again. “Merlin help us. This topic of conversation should not be discussed until your _wedding night_.”

“Oh no, we’re going to have a wedding night,” Harry squeaks, thoroughly embarrassed, and stares determinedly at the _tempus_ charm. It hadn’t occurred to him, until now, that he’s going to have _sex._ With _Voldemort._

Voldemort scowls, offended. “Do not sound so disgusted. I am a fantastic bed-partner.”

“I prefer my partners with a nose, and only one penis,” Harry manages through his sudden choking.

“That was a _joke,_ ” Voldemort says. “Why the fuck would I have two cocks? And you wouldn’t know anything about what you prefer-- you’re a virgin.”

“I’ve kissed people,” Harry says, aiming for lofty and getting a slightly constipated tone.

“Really.” Voldemort raises a brow, a strange note in his voice. “Who?”

“Cedric Diggory,” Harry supplies. “Cho Chang.”

“Are they not dating each other now?” Voldemort asks.

Harry replies automatically, “Yeah,” then blinks. “Wait, how do you know that?”

“Of course I know,” Voldemort says, failing to answer the question. That he gets his Hogwarts gossip from Draco Malfoy is simply too embarrassing to divulge.

“You’ve been stalking me?!” Harry shouts, scandalized, trying to tug his hand out of Voldemort’s again. Voldemort doesn’t let go.

Snape is beyond words and has given up on directing the conversation into proper pureblood courting topics. It was never a conventional courtship anyway.

After a few more spats, the _tempus_ charm finally chimes, signaling the end of the week’s meeting. “Exchange your gifts now,” Snape announces, relieved, and stands.

Voldemort moves to help Harry up, as a pureblood should, and Harry swats him. 

Yes, Snape is definitely relieved that he won’t have to do this again until next Sunday, he thinks as he watches Voldemort criticize Harry’s gift of a generic cloak. Harry bends the tip of his new, expensive quill in retaliation.

* * *

Next Sunday, Voldemort shows up wearing his new cloak, and the ink stains on Harry’s fingers haven’t yet completely washed off.

**Author's Note:**

> who knows, maybe V lied about his double trouble because snape’s there. _the mystery continues_
> 
> i feel the urge to write more, or to edit again, but i can’t stare at this any longer so. here. if i ever do write more, it’ll be in the series <3


End file.
